XX. Achaean Republic
"Itamar" – Pass Me By
Language(s): English, Spanish
Lyrics: Itamar Maldonado
Music: Erika Robledo, Andrés Cortina
Tune:Shea Diamond - American Pie
Itamar Maldonado is used to shattering myths and preconceptions of culture, gender identities and the dichotomy between public/private personas. Her music and art can navigate the fine line between creative and offensive, of real-life symptoms and caricature effects. She attempts to create beauty on the defensive and the offensive, a mockery of the cookie-cutter ways Achaean society tends to consume love and sex in its most expressive and downright stereotypical—the skimpy skirts, the tasteless jokes, the unnecessarily aggressive
piropos thrown down the street by horny, ugly men who only see women as objects of personal, scatological desire instead of fully-formed, ideal members of society. Her vision is always a clash between the old and the new, attempting to transform the distorted imaginaries of gender and allowing new concepts to flourish.
Only if that were the message Itamar would spread in his life. She can’t even go one day in the street without someone misgendering her, sometimes intentionally in order to get a rise out of her temper. She can’t even go to a female public bathroom, or even a
male public bathroom nonetheless, without being gawked at in the best moments, or jeered and humiliated in the worst. And now with a former religious figure as president, who has never been even performatively kind to the Achaean LGBTQI+ community in general, there’s an even bigger existential dread that the massive strides done in the past few years towards true equality could be erased with the stroke of a pen. As Maldonado once controversially declared in a Pink News article back in 2019 “Achaea is, and has never been, the ‘sexual paradise’ people look for in their travel brochures. Get away from the luxury and gated comfort of the artificial hotel estates that poison our beaches and look into the misery of the minority that still dare to inhabit this country.” Her sharp, cynical words drew the ire of many in the country and even from other LGBTQI+ activists who previously defended her work. But she didn’t care at all.
To be fair, though, Itamar was never one to please the masses, especially when she’s clearly talking the truth. While conditions for the Achaean LGBTQI+ community have improved in the past decade, from same-sex marriage to adoptions to the elimination of deferral periods for blood donations to the point of being considered the Caribbean’s “gay paradise,” and visibility of queer artists in competitions such as WorldVision and World Hit Festival have hit a nadir, conformity should never exist with the rest of society until true equality can be achieved—if ever. A somewhat radical noncomformist, there are always more envelopes to push, more attitudes to transform. Derided by critics as a “cultural Marxist” and a “trender,” the questions her imposing voice poses draw attention to the criticisms and transformations of Achaean culture, if they ever bother listening to her at all.
It wasn’t always like this for Itamar. Her birth name in fact, was
Ismael, much like her father and her father’s father and her father’s father’s grandfather. Growing up in the city of Alvires near the Corola-Metrópolis state border, the family moved to Orongumilá, Islas Fortuna for his father’s Pentecostal missionary work. Even when young, Israel always felt significant discomfort with her thin frame, big nose and dark skin, all the while wearing pants and suits and ties and carrying a small Bible on his hand for six out of seven days a week. The constant pressure of portraying as a Bible-thumping, tongue-speaking hypocrite who felt such internal discomfort in masculinity. But the discomfort was not only physical: this was a spiritual, emotional, psychological struggle to initiate a conversation between herself over the emotions coursing through her body. (Reader, you might notice the pronouns have changed from feminine to masculine and then to feminine again; this is the struggle Ismael, who later became Itamar, faced within her spirit.) The constant exposure to religion also soured her into organized religion—which is why her first album,
Crucifixion!! caused so much controversy in the Achaean alternative community because it served as both a defense and an indictment of Christianity and, more so, its complex gender roles. The physical discomfort that translated into her body slowly grew into hatred, and that almost poisoned her.
This is why when she became a teenager, she took the Manamma route and decided to turn her rebellion into a sledgehammer. She turned to Santería, a religion she considered to be much more tolerant for trans people. She went to clubs as a minor and hung out in raves while stealing her mom’s skirts and dresses, making major modifications with the help of a friendly tailor. In this period of confusion and rebellion, of experimentation and frustration, she attempted to define herself as a woman. It was at this juncture that, on her journey to become the woman she always wanted to be, Israel would secretly name herself
Itamar, an originally
male Biblical name, as a mark of respect to her heritage and her own identity.
Originally written in English,
Pass Me By is “a poem, a symbol, a declaration of my own empowerment” in Itamar’s own words. “I’ve said many times that I can use my voice to create my own matriarchy, but I need to create one within myself first.” Another radical departure from her transgressive, alternative roots, the song maintains her confessional structure and delves into soul and R&B, two genres she always wanted to challenge and perfect her voice in.
Itamar always enjoyed taking a stroll through the ports. The twenty-degree weather felt bitingly cold enough to have small dewdrops in her sweater, but warm enough that the sun could dry them quickly from her ebony skin. She was walking with the sweater she bought for the trip—a light-blue jacket and a fresh set of bottom-hugging jeans. Her hair had small red-orange highlights on the frosty tips and she carried a purse. And of course, she had her mask on, but she quickly put it on and off whenever nobody was looking at her so she could get a breath of fresh air.
Pardon to the Normands and Picards, but this was one of the very few times she could enjoy quarantine-free travel in business class to a
chic European destination.
Ports are always busy, dingy and sketchy—or so felt parts of Puerto Ámbar or Rosario. But she felt some comfort and the coming and going of different boats and barges carrying stuff up and down the pier. But Le Havre felt different. It didn’t feel like a gray, stale collection of storage rooms and cruise ships that only carried annoying tourists asking for pictures. There was something calming, relaxing about Le Havre. Nobody knew her. Nobody remembered her. Nobody questioned her. And that felt refreshing. While she waited for a chance to drink some white wine and enjoy some
moules frites as the woman she deserved to be.
Once the Achaean postcard was done and the cameras returned to the cheering crowds at La Havre, the stage was suddenly illuminated with the nation’s typical red-blue-green colors. A few Achaeans, always loud and boisterous, could be heard waving their flags and speaking Spanish to each other during the few seconds before the transition. For those that were present—and especially to progressive Achaeans—, it was a scene to behold: for the first time, a trans woman would represent the
fueguero nation on the World Hit Festival, and it was a point of pride and honor that, despite the somewhat uneven forces against the community in recent times, there are still opportunities to be forged and glass ceilings to be broken.
Itamar, however, did not care about any inspirational applications; she only wanted to sing her song and get off the stage. Not that she didn’t enjoy her time in Le Havre; however, despite maintaining an outlandish, offensive persona, she tried to be practical in her stage presence and management. With the stage lights about to turn on, she only needed to breathe in and breathe out for a few brief moments. She needed to forget about the many times she felt humiliated over being misgendered, or the many microaggressions she faced from society and even her own friends and family over a misunderstanding—not necessarily supporting—her journey. She had to dismiss the critics that questioned her “unwomanly postures” or those pesky trolling radical feminists that couldn’t ignore a woman succeeding as well. That needed to be forgotten, for at least a few minutes.
Then, a light turned on and Itamar was in full view. She wore a
white maxi-dress-style butterfly dress that looked like a cross between a kimono and a kaftan. Unlike other fashion choices, this one came from her own closet, being the one she normally uses for some rituals that do not require certain ceremonial sacrifices. It was long, flowy, and elegant, something she would never bother to wear in public (her style concentrates on blacks and greys and reds, intense colors and leathery substances better suited to her industrial fashion). She also wore an
off-white cotton headwrap with gold trimmings that reminisced of the
tignons imposed to Louisiana black and Creole women in the 18th century. This head-wrap, though, also had space for her to let her golden-brown locks flow. (She joked to paparazzi, “If I bought it, then it’s real!” whenever they shamefully asked if her hair was real or not.) Then again, this was a radically different look than the one she would typically use on the stage. But it’s always important to switch it up sometimes.
Unlike other performances, her countenance and tone of voice was much more contemplative and not as aggressive or repulsive—she used the word
repulsive to describe the alienation she wanted to provoke with her music. Instead, she started off singing with her eyes half-gazed on the floor, breathing heavily but not audibly towards the microphone stand, trying to settle her unusual nerves and keeping her cool. Behind her in the center platform, there were her vocalists and musicians, a collection of enbies and nonbinaries that had great voices and auditioned alongside Itamar to perform in Le Havre. Behind them, the stage had blue and white and golden tones on the LED screens that looked more like ink blots akin to a Rorscharch test or the waves of the sea.
Instead, Itamar began her performance with a black-and-white screen barring the bling, with different camera angles capturing each of the verses of the first stanza. As much as she tried to keep a steady face and calm her nerves, it’s impossible for her not to live her fantasy as a soul
chanteuse, a conception of femininity she thought it was nigh impossible for a woman of her frame to portray.
Unlike other performances, her countenance and tone of voice was much more contemplative and not as aggressive or repulsive—she used the word
repulsive to describe the alienation she wanted to provoke with her music. Instead, she started off singing with her eyes half-gazed on the floor, breathing heavily but not audibly towards the microphone stand, trying to settle her unusual nerves and keeping her cool. Behind her in the center platform, there were her vocalists and musicians, a collection of enbies and nonbinaries that had great voices and auditioned alongside Itamar to perform in Le Havre. Behind them, the stage had blue and white and golden tones on the LED screens that looked more like ink blots akin to a Rorscharch test or the waves of the sea.
Instead, Itamar began her performance with a black-and-white screen barring the bling, with different camera angles capturing each of the verses of the first stanza. As much as she tried to keep a steady face and calm her nerves, it’s impossible for her not to live her fantasy as a soul
chanteuse, a conception of femininity she thought it was nigh impossible for a woman of her frame to portray.
I’ve been told that I am bound to waste my youth
Because I’m not afraid to live tested, tried and true
It’s the wrath I’ve faced, I’ve been made so new
The darkness of life won’t leave me blue
It was hard for Itamar to not think of other Achaean performances in the Festival, which always involved some type of movement, be it upwards or downwards or sideways. Yet she was standing, holding tight to her microphone, crooning her discontent to people she never even met before, judging her looks, judging her womanhood, judging herself. Despite all the nimble acrobatics and feats of prowess she could throw at a number—she was a child of the streets, after all—Itamar needed to balance her insecurities with her self-worth. It filled her with anger. It filled her with sadness. The bright cameras were blinding her. The music was too loud. She worried she’d trip on her dress and pratfall down the stage in front of the Multiverse. She worried the backing track would mess up the vocalists’ performances. Too much was going on, and that made her feel powerless all at once.
Flesh and bones, they waste and I’m burning
On fire and glass I bleed and I’m hurting
Who’s to say that looks cannot deceive?
I cannot escape yet I’m skirting
The rules of lie that are always diverting
Who’s to say that looks cannot deceive?
The Spidercam had a frame at Itamar’s body, to which it then retreated to a wide pan view of her in the smaller stage, surrounded by a sea of flags and cheering fans—the Achaeans being prominently the loudest—and providing a view of the stage and the metal “twirl” twinkling with lights. This made the LED “sea” behind her look foamy and somewhat bioluminescent, like the ones on those beaches at night she hasn’t gone to yet. But it was time to work the performance and worry about beaches whenever she has the time to pull a quick vacation.
Her countenance had to be serious and restrained, forceful and brooding like those aforementioned jazz chanteuses. She was never used to take herself so seriously—in private, at least—, yet she needed to present herself as not only serious, but an awkward contradiction between aggrieved and resigned. Instead of loops and theatrics and a few curse words she could slap on for the sake of “art,” Itamar now had to rely on the power of her voice and the strength of her emotional gravitas and hope this would be enough to convince the Multiverse to vote for her. It was hard to not feel agreed for what many critics, even many queer feminists in her country, as they questioned the “minstrel-ness of oppression”, especially with the many intertextualities of her performance: “a black, trans, Latin American woman that, despite her haunting voice and performative accolades, she still feels
forced to beg for likes to a hetero-patriarchal world,” wrote one blogger whom she knows was not quite fond of her presence. The criticism, the psychobabble she was used to. But she was always aware of any movements and ulterior motives, more so when she was determined to not let life…pass her by. The anger was there, yes, but that anger transformed into resolution. And that was the resolution she needed to harness.
Don’t want the rest of life to pass me by
What is love, what to try
Enjoy my hands and enjoy my time
Don’t want the rest of life to pass me by
Let the world see what I can see
Let them wake up and see how I’m complete
Now she has to sing the part in Spanish. She didn’t mind singing in English, even if Itamar felt she wasn’t proficient enough yet. Of course, she needed to respect the broadcaster’s wishes if she wanted to take the trip to Le Havre—getting out of the contract would be a pain—but if she were honest, she would’ve lobbied to avoid the language switch. But that was her opinion, and that cannot serve as a petty distraction. Itamar has been distracted enough by the forces. Nevertheless, she slowly and tenderly grabbed the microphone stand. It felt weird to keep one position while singing and limiting any sharp movements that would not keep into the song’s tone. She closed her eyes, breathed in, breathed out, and opened them up again. She kept the gaze at the camera, and to the Multiversal viewer at home, watching the performance. It was the time to let the resolution in her mind and body speak for itself. Maybe she should just change her line of work to soul and R&B.
Me han dicho que voy a perder mi juventud
Porque no pierdo el miedo de probar mi virtud
Mi mente se hizo libre de la esclavitud
Y ahora mis días tienen tanta gratitud
In English, she thought, the words sounded quite smooth and reflective. In Spanish, however, the lyrics felt iridescent and determined. She could be both at the same time or place it in different compartments and take them out when need be. It was—damn you, focus! Itamar immediately smacked her neck with the back of her hand as she closed her eyes and wrinkled her neck to the side, making it look like she was involving herself in the performance. (She was, yes, but she also had a terrible pain in the neck after sleeping in an oddly shaped bed and carrying the tension of these last days while rehearsing.) Movements like these would drive them interested, they said, showing a bit of vulnerability, they followed.
The LED screens behind the performers turned from blues and whites and golden wavy patterns to intense crimson and vermillion that also reflected on Itamar’s white gown. From angelical and feminine and aspirational—cunt, cunt, cunt—, a muted but primal energy was bleeding through the stage. It was hard to not think of the many costly surgeries she did in order to make herself look feminine. The humiliations of going to the women’s bathroom and weaning back at the very last minute in order to avoid inducing discomfort to other women…even though she was one. The hormones that made her puke many times over, or the dates that immediately rejected her when they knew she was trans. She was tired—no, definitely, she was
tired.
Con la piel y mis huesos quemando
En fuego y vidrio hiriendo y sangrando
¿Quién dijo que el sembante no engañará?
No puedo escapar, mas bordeando
Las reglas de la vida desviando
¿Quién dijo que el sembante no engañará?
Then came the chorus—in Spanish. Like before, she had to look serious and restrained, her voice sultry and ethereal and haunting and a little bit more. In English, Itamar grew more comfortable with the fantasy. In Spanish, though, she felt like she had to struggle to convey the many emotions in her words. That was the word she was looking for: a
struggle. It may sound ephemeral and a little bit vain, but even transitioning between two completely distinct languages brought a bittersweet reminder of her own journey. Someone told her years ago, she can’t remember who, that “Everything that is beautiful deserves to be transformed, like a butterfly flapping its wings once it leaves the cocoon.” This she kept with her throughout this time of transition from Israel to Itamar; from rejection to acclamation; from ignominy to infamy. Changing from one language to another also mean conforming so many perspectives into a condensed pair of words that may not even make sense. But yet, she had to keep transforming.
The Spidercam was elevated around Itamar’s waist and zoomed out from afar, almost watching her become engulfed by the flag-waving, hand-raising audience. From this position, as well as the camera on rails, showed her standing with a hand on her microphone stand, another arm moving up and down the air, her body moving and shaking that moved her dress. Then, a slight fog enveloped the stage, covering her feet. She could also feel the little dew drops forming below her feet. The LED screens and the light emanating from them would shine their colors and project them onto the opaque mist. Blue. Pink. Silver or bone white. Pastels.
There was a reason, but she didn’t want to be pushy.
No quiero que la vida se haga pasar
¿Qué es el amor? ¿Qué hay que intentar?
Disruto mis manos, mi tiempo igual
No quiero que la vida se haga pasar
Que el mundo vea lo que veo y
Que se despierte una nueva razón
She was born to live, made to love, ready to win. Or at least those were the affirmations she lived by. Now, it was time to switch from English and Spanish while the vocalists keep vamping their vocals from behind her. It was also time to reflect, to show her vocal prowess, her grip and iron grit. You need it when living in Achaea. But now she needed to envelop herself in the music and take this to the end, if there ever was one. If she could not appreciate her own talents, who would do that for her? If she cannot regale herself in her womanhood, who would do that for her. The cameras were staring down Itamar’s countentance, circling around her in the smaller platform and providing brief, side-angle glances of the cheering, flag-waving, barely socially distanced (and hopefully vaccinated) crowds that were present in Le Havre. But it was time to bring closure. She needed it.
Don’t want the rest of life to pass me by
What is love, what to try
Enjoy my hands and enjoy my time
Don’t want the rest of life to pass me by
Let the world see what I can see
Let them wake up and see how I’m complete
No quiero que la vida se haga pasar
¿Qué es el amor? ¿Qué hay que intentar?
Disruto mis manos, mi tiempo igual
No quiero que la vida se haga pasar
Que el mundo vea lo que veo y
Que se despierte una nueva razón
Once the music died down and the cheering crowds could be heard in full force, Itamar placed her right hand to her heart and took a bow. Her backup singers, good friends she made along the way, also blew kisses and waved at the audience. Itamar, on the other hand, blew kisses at the crowd in every directions and said to her microphone, “¡Gracias, Le Havre! Merci beaucoup!” before quickly leaving the stage. She was grateful she finished the performance without a hitch, yes. But she also wanted to do it again and again.